


Dressed in Black

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: muse_talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-18
Updated: 2008-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's fifteen," Brian says.  "He hates his life, he hates his parents, he wants to die.  In other words, he's a typical teenager."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed in Black

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five  
> Written for LJ's Muse_Talking community (1st Person Justin Taylor)  
> Prompt: Black

Brian and I are sitting in the study when we hear the front door slam shut.

Brian lets the top half of the newspaper dip down so that I can see his face, and glances at me over the top of his reading glasses. "You forgot to lock the door again," he accuses.

"Uh, I don't think so," I retort immediately. "You were the last one in the house."

We both ignore the _clack-clack-clack_ of someone in high heels and higher temper unmistakably advancing down the hallway.

"No," Brian says pointedly, "I came in and locked the door. And then _you_ had to go back out to the car for your _widdle mittens_."

"They're gloves," I snap. "They're cashmere lined Forzieris and-- oh, shit."

Brian removes his glasses, arches a brow, and gives me that superior look. I'd be turned on if I wasn't pissed off.

Okay, so I forgot to lock the door again. Big deal. "We're in the middle of nowhere," I argue. "It's not like when I lived in the Bronx."

"Exactly," Brian says. "We're in the middle of nowhere. So there's no one around to hear your dying screams when the axe murderer walks right in through the unlocked door and proceeds to chop you into tiny little bite-sized pieces."

I take a breath to argue further, to point out that Brian used to let the entire population of gay Pittsburgh trounce in and out of the loft without a moments thought, but then I decide to just let it drop. He's right, anyway. I should have locked the door. I just kind of hate when he's right.

And when he does that Clark Kent thing with his glasses, whipping them off to reveal the hot stud underneath, sometimes I can't think straight.

And besides, the persistent _clack-clack-clack_ has come to a sudden halt, and Lindsay is framed in the study doorway.

"You," she says breathlessly, pointing a long-taloned finger at Brian, "have to talk to your son."

Brian sighs as he puts down his paper and slides easily from his chair. He crosses the room and peeks elaborately around Lindsay's frame, checking first one way down the long hall, then the other.

"Gus," he says patiently, "I've warned you to stay away from the black magic potions in Mad Mel's dungeon. They've turned you invisible again."

Lindsay huffs out a laugh, but looks like she wants to strangle him. I understand completely.

"He's not here," she says.

Brian ignores her. "And why," he asks me instead, "is he my kid when he's being an asshole, and her kid when he gets straight A's?"

"Because the asshole portion of his DNA comes from you?" I suggest.

Brian sticks out his tongue at me -- so mature -- before turning his attention to Lindsay. "What'd he do now?"

"He's dyed his entire wardrobe black," Lindsay informs us.

Brian blinks. "That's all?"

Lindsay rolls her eyes and throws up her hands. "Isn't that enough?" she asks. She doesn't wait for an answer. "He says that 'no one understands him.' That he's 'shackled by the constraints of society.'"

Brian presses his lips together. "He actually _said_ 'shackled by the constraints of--'"

"Yes!"

I look at Brian. He looks at me. And we both try not to laugh.

"It's not funny!" Lindsay says. She almost stamps her foot. I can see her wanting to do it.

"Yes," Brian says, "it is."

"Brian--"

"He's fifteen," Brian says. "He hates his life, he hates his parents, he wants to die. In other words, he's a typical teenager."

Lindsay fiddles with her gloves. "You really think so?"

"Oh," I pipe in, remembering something from my youth, "does he write really bad poetry?"

Lindsay blinks. "How did you know?"

Somewhere in my mom's attic there are spiral notebooks filled with the morose musings of my fifteen year old mind. I smile innocently. "Just a good guess," I say.

"He's also started wearing eyeliner," Lindsay tells us.

"Well, that's _his_ fault," Brian says, jutting his chin in my direction. "_He's_ the one who put makeup on the kid."

"He was four!" I protest.

"As if he didn't have enough gender identity issues with two dykes as his primary parents--"

"It was Hallowe'en," I shout. "He was going as a member of KISS!"

"It's all right, Justin," Lindsay says soothingly. "I have no problem with Gus expressing his individuality by wearing a little eyeliner."

I glance over at Brian smugly.

"And besides," she continues, eyes twinkling, "he tells me his girlfriend likes it."

Brian wobbles a little on his feet and then lets himself slide down onto the sofa like the drama queen he always denies he is. "Definitely straight, then?"

Lindsay nods. "Third girlfriend this year."

Brian looks helplessly from me to Lindsay. "Where did we go wrong?"

"It's nothing we did," she tells him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "It's genetics. Some people are just born heterosexual." She smiles at Brian's mock anguish, then turns serious. "What are we going to do about the clothes? He's bleeding dye all over the furniture!"

Brian grabs her hand and lets Lindsay pull him to his feet. "Bring him over tomorrow," he suggests. "Justin can take him shopping."

I raise my eyebrows at this. Clothes shopping with a sullen fifteen year old is not what I had planned for my day.

"And I'll lend him some of my old Smiths records," Brian continues as we walk Lindsay to the door. "Show him he's not alone."

"Morrissey and Hot Topic?" Lindsay asks dubiously. "Do you really think that will take care of everything?"

"Sure," I say brightly. "He just needs a few more years to sort out everything in his head. And then when he's seventeen and he gets picked up by some hot twenty-nine year old--" I break off when Lindsay glares at me. "Never mind."

We see her out with her promise to drop Gus by at eleven the next morning.

"You're coming shopping with us," I say as soon as the door is closed.

"Fuck that," Brian says. He reaches out quickly and pulls me tight against him, effectively stalling my planned protest. "Some 'hot' twenty-nine year old?" he asks.

"Maybe more than hot," I concede.

Brian ducks his head, sucks my earlobe into his mouth. I twist my neck to give him better access and lick my lips. "Maybe?" he murmurs against my ear.

"Well," I say, "my memory's not what it used to be."

Brian pulls back to tug on my belt, leading me toward the stairs with that glint in his eye that I know so well. "Maybe I need to refresh that memory," he says.

Sounds good to me.

But then I remember.

"Wait," I say, holding up a finger.

And I lock the door.


End file.
